Fourteen
by AnniePants
Summary: A look at the lives of Mulder and Scully in the 1970's


_Fourteen_

_**Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams,  
Telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems.**_

_**The sea was red and the sky was grey,  
Wondered how tomorrow could ever follow today.**_

**Summer, 1974--**

The boy presses his palms against the old screen door to close it with a delicate whisper instead of a sharp bang. He glances at his wristwatch: it's 1:58. The slap of his bare feet against the cool stone path provides percussion for a cricket serenade as he travels away from the house, through the garden, and into the dreamy embrace of the night. He cannot sleep in the house anymore; memories hide menacingly behind every door and skulk in every corner. A silence as deep as the universe holds a death grip on his childhood home, forcing him to make nightly escapes. Always, he creeps out through the back porch, careful not to disturb his father.

Tall grasses tickle his shins during his solitary march through the small field; their field—his and hers. The familiar burn in his chest rises with a tingling bitterness as he remembers games of baseball here with the boys that used to live nearby. He never let her play—she was a bratty baby, he used to say, and a girl, which was a greater crime. Tears would gather in her eyes at his harsh rejections, and her bottom lip would stick out sullenly. _But I can play Fox. I'm really good, I swear. Let me try! _She stubbornly insisted on following him wherever he went, attempting desperately to be his constant companion, but he wouldn't let her. _And now she's gone. She's gone, and it's my fault._ The old mantra returns to beat like a drum in his brain, so he begins to run away from the field, away from his own thoughts, but he can never run fast enough. _There was that time the blizzard came and Sam and I chased each other through the mountainous drifts across the field. We gathered buckets of snow and dragged them back to the house so Mom could make ice cream…we were happy then._ This time when he remembers, he almost smiles.

Down the hill and through the line of trees he runs, until at last he reaches the end of the journey. Chilly, damp sand squishes through the cracks between his toes as he stares into the horizon with glassy eyes. He runs his hand through his shaggy, chestnut hair and releases a deep sigh, collapsing to his knees. The high tide crashes to meet him; warm waves lick his plaid pajama bottoms. He buries his hands in the sand to feel the gravity of the full moon tug the water back into the sea. Fixed on the sensation, his eyes flutter closed and his mind drifts to a time when life was different.

His mother and father weren't happy; they'd never been happy together, but at least they used to pretend. And when they fought late at night in semi-hushed voices in a half-assed attempt not to wake the kids, he'd at least had Samantha for comfort. Each time the angry voices traveled up the stairs to his bedroom after midnight, he would pull the quilt over his head, grab the army flashlight from under the bed, and read. He would choose one of his favorite books when he truly needed to escape—either _Brave New World,_ _1984, _or _War of the Worlds._ Novels had always been his escape; that was the reason he hardly had any friends. "Fox the book geek. Fox the pansy boy". But he never cared what anyone thought.

If the argument was heated enough, it woke Samantha. Her bedroom was adjacent to his, and on those nights, he would often hear the creak of the door that connected their rooms, followed by a hesitantly whispered "Fox?".

"I'm up, Sam. You can come in."

Those were the times when he dropped his big brother teaser/bully role to show her that he loved her and promised to protect her. He would throw his makeshift tent back, letting her crawl inside, and wrap his arms around her to make her feel safe.

"Out loud Fox," she always demanded. And he would read to her, even though he knew she never understood the stories; the gentle sound of his voice rescued her. But he never admitted that she rescued him right back.

_I wish I had. I wish I'd said so many things…_

One day she was gone—she never came back, and it was his fault; he couldn't protect her like he'd promised. The pain of the loss and guilt bore an ugly black hole in his chest, and his parents seemed to take perverse pleasure in adding salt to the open wound. After he lost his little sister, his father began to hate him. The process was gradual, growing from anger and blame and then blossoming into passionate dislike with an undertone of pure hatred. What hurt the most was overhearing the bitter words exchanged between his mother and father after that terrible day.

"He's just a boy, Bill! My god, you can't blame him! Don't do this to him!" his mother shrieked through strangled tears.

"No! He was supposed to watch her…he should have…he should've…"

His father left, and a year passed before they spoke again. The boy lived with his mother in Greenwich while his father remained at the house in Martha's Vineyard. After her daughter disappeared, his mother became an entirely different person. She only spoke when it was absolutely necessary and often took to locking herself in her bedroom, sleeping for hours. Her son was forced to juggle school work, baseball practice, and caring for his mother as if she were the child—a burden that aged him ten years in the span of two. Anger and resentment for his father boiled inside the boy. Why had he been left alone with her? Could a parent dislike their child enough to leave him with this life?

The year that followed was a time of change for the boy. Well, he didn't really change as much as he attempted to. He was sick of being the smart kid, so he purposefully failed advanced algebra—a sure way to make his father livid. Then one afternoon, behind the school, the boy had his first and only encounter with an illicit substance. He removed the tie and loosened the collar of his school uniform, took the joint from his best and maybe only friend, Chad, and inhaled. The Grateful Dead's "I Believe" played on the portable 8-track at their feet as the boys tried to free their minds. What a disappointment—it only gave him a headache…Oh, and then there was the fight. He had never punched anyone in his life, but when Tommy Beckman called him a wuss on a particularly horrible day, the boy lunged at him, striking him in the stomach. Good old Tommy put in a swing before collapsing to the ground; his fist struck the boy's nose, fracturing the bone. That was the day the boy became a pacifist. So much for "showing" Dad.

The silence finally broke between father and son when the boy could not force his mother out of her room after three days; she would not even answer his cries. Unsure of what to do, the boy hesitantly placed a call to Martha's Vineyard. He hadn't wanted to admit how much he'd needed his father then; he hated feeling needy, almost as much as he hated crying.

"Dad?" he'd sobbed shakily into the phone. When there was no response on the other end of the line, though breathing was clearly audible, the boy dropped his cool exterior. "Daddy, I'm scared. Please come."

For a brief time in his life, when he was very small, his father had been the hero, the official chaser-of-monsters. He secretly wishes to have those days back.

There was a pause and an intake of breath over the static of the connection and then a soft, "Okay, Fox. I'll be there soon."

The boy stretches his legs in front of him and leans back on his arms. His face contorts in an angry scowl and he squeezes his hands into fists in the sand. He cannot tolerate the truth being hidden from him, as his father often does. The explanation of his mother's illness echoes in his ears.

_Oh… your mother accidentally swallowed a few extra Valium. She's sorry, Fox. She really didn't mean to. It's been hard for her—losing your sister. You can understand, can't you Fox? You're coming with me for awhile. It'll be like vacation…_

He leans his head back to observe the bowl of heavens hanging above. _Starlight is billions of years old, so when you look up at the night sky, you're actually peeking into the past. It never dies…_On this same stretch of sand when the boy was four years old, he sat on his father's shoulders and gazed at the twinkling constellations. In a small voice full of awe, he asked his father where the light came from, and that had been his answer—the light was born in the beginning of time. As a child, he could not begin to contemplate the significance of those words.

But he is no longer a child. Gazing up into the past he ponders what the future may bring. _What do I want from life?_

"I want the stars. I want to see the stars up close." he murmurs aloud.

He stands, brushes the sand from his damp pajama bottoms, and turns uphill, slowly walking back to the house and softly humming "Kashmir". He is fourteen.

**_Made up my mind to make a new start,  
Going to California with an aching in my heart.  
Someone told me there's a girl out there  
With love in her eyes and flowers in her hair._**

**Summer, 1978—**

Her heart is racing. _OhmygodOhmygod. If they catch me, they'll kill me. HurryHurryHurry. _She chants to herself as her shaking hands dig through her mother's purse in the darkness of the kitchen. _It's okay. Nobody's awake. It's late enough. _She focuses her eyes through the shadows to read the clock hanging on the wall: it's 1:58. _Yes! Finally! _With half a pack of Mom's Virginia Slims and chrome lighter gripped in her hands, she slowly and quietly opens the sliding glass door and steps into the tiny fenced-in backyard.

As far as she is concerned, cigarettes are the most revolting invention of man. Smoking is, therefore, not a past time of pleasure for her; the giddiness that it brings has become the real drug. This is her fifth time trying; she's been doing it once a week so her mother won't notice. She awkwardly strikes the lighter with her thumb and jumps at the sudden spark. Just like she has watched her mother do countless times, she daintily places the cigarette between her lips and lights the tip, cupping her other hand against the breeze. Tentatively, she takes a first drag and immediately begins to choke. _Why am I still so bad at this? _After a few more attempts, she inhales more smoothly and manages only a slight grimace.

This is her form of rebellion; rebelling against what exactly, she cannot quite answer, but regardless, it is hers. These moments, these nights, are hers. In a way she longs for her father, her Ahab, to come outside and see what his daughter is up to. She hates to disappoint him more than anything; she works unceasingly to make him proud, happy. But after awhile, the role of perfect child becomes frustratingly difficult to fill, and she simply wants to show him that she does indeed have flaws—that she can be bad too. Her older brother, Bill, would get into trouble for all of his partying after football games when he still lived at home. Once, their parents even had to bail him out of jail for underage drinking. And her older sister, Melissa, often sneaks out of the house late at night to meet her boyfriend at the beach. Melissa is the artist of the family, and that in itself is a cause for trouble; she has never had the drive to succeed in school, because she wants to spend the rest of her life painting and sculpting. So their parents are satisfied when Melissa brings home a C. And Charlie—Charlie has been suspended from school twice for fighting and "hyperactivity".

That only leaves the girl. One day when she was four years old, she declared to her parents that she was going to be a doctor when she grew up. Surprisingly, that goal only grew with age. When people ask her why her life's ambition is to work in an emergency room, she has always replied with an altruistic answer.

_I want to know that my life impacts others daily. I want to help people and save lives and families and loved ones. I want to do something that can really make a difference._

As she lightly puffs on the cigarette, she nearly giggles out loud at the pretentiousness of that thought. Of course, there is truth to it, but more than anything, she simply wants to feel successful in a challenging, prestigious profession. School work and studying have become the spine of her life. Well, she does other things, like track and soccer and sailing, but her focus is on competing with her peers for the best marks. All of the advanced classes she is enrolled in are easy for her, and she often ends up tutoring other students. She even helps all three of her siblings with math and science, her two favorite subjects. Understandably, her parents have become quite accustomed to their youngest daughter being the "good" and "driven" one. Especially her father; he often brags about her until she wishes she could disappear.

Following the rules has also earned her high esteem in her parents' eyes; never has she caused any problems, and she can only remember being genuinely punished twice in her life. Her mother has always preached, _You can catch more flies with honey than vinegar._ And that has always been her philosophy; it's seneschal, after all. _Not anymore_. It feels good to taste something forbidden.

The girl confidently takes a longer drag from the cigarette, and it makes her feel special, daring. She imagines that she is a beautiful movie star like Farah Faucett having a casual smoke break while filming an episode of "Charlie's Angels". With great panache, she runs her hand through her hair and fantasizes that it is blonde and bouncy, not red and frizzy. And instead of a plain, white cotton nightgown, in her mind, she wears a sexy evening gown tightly hugging perfect curves.

She glances down at her own body and sighs with renewed disappointment: skinny and boring. Sometimes she is envious of Melissa—the "pretty" one. When the girl tutors her sister in math, she often receives a return lesson in the art of make-up, but her attempts at fixing herself up to appear more glamorous continue to fail miserably, in her own opinion._ Oh well, maybe one day…_

Dramatically, she stomps out her not-quite-finished cigarette in the dirt, but thinks twice and picks it up, intending to hide it in the bottom of the kitchen trashcan. The dewy grass feels spongy under her bare feet as she pads around the side of the house to the driveway. Sharp rocks in the cement prick the bottoms of her small feet, so she lightly jogs over the jagged surface to shorten the unpleasant contact. She climbs onto the hood of her father's shiny, red '69 Thunderbird and carefully pulls herself onto the roof of the car. Then she settles herself down on her back to observe the stars, or what little she can see through the light pollution of the city. Instinctively, as she often does during moments of contemplation, she begins fingering the miniature gold cross that she wears on a chain at her neck: a Christmas gift from her mother. _It means God is with you…_The girl would never tell her mother, or anyone for that matter, that she doesn't believe in God's plan anymore. _My future is mine; it isn't already decided._ A wistful smile plays across her lips as she wanders into dreams of the unknown road before her.

_What will be my greatest accomplishment? My biggest fear?...Am I really going to be a doctor?...Will I be rich and successful?...Will someone love me? Really love me…Who am I going to marry? I wish I could know what he's like…if I even get married. .._

She thinks for a moment, trying to decide what she wants most.

"I want to discover something that changes everything…" she murmurs aloud. Still smiling, she swings her legs around and slides down, clutching the cigarette butt and lighter, and quietly tip-toes back to the house. She is fourteen.

**Quotes from Led Zeppelin's "Going to California"**


End file.
